


A Clowder of Cats

by Lauralot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cat Sitting, Cats, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:57:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3726220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Isaac,” Steve says, in what he hopes is a neutral tone of voice.  “Just how many cats do you have?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Clowder of Cats

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bofurrific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bofurrific/gifts).



> A birthday gift for [bofurrific.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bofurrific/pseuds/bofurrific)

Steve finds Murphy halfway down a storm drain. 

The rest of the STRIKE team had arrived at the extraction point at the designated time, and were now taking shelter from the storm in the Quinjet. But Murphy hadn’t made the rendezvous, his comm-link a mess of crackling static when Steve demanded a status report. 

“Rescue—drowning—” is all that Steve can make out. It doesn’t make any sense—they’ve already freed the hostages—but he’ll have to find Murphy to make any sense of his words. And he does, mere blocks away from the extraction point, stuck in a storm drain from the hips up. 

Steve’s stomach clenches. It’s not just rain they’re dealing with, it’s a tropical storm. The streets are flooded. He can’t be sure if the tremors through Murphy’s legs are an attempt to free himself, or convulsions from suffocation. And if Murphy’s in that bad a state, it doesn’t bode well for whoever he’s trying to rescue. Steve tries to banish the image of a drowned child from his mind, grabbing hold of Murphy and pulling him free. 

Murphy isn’t holding a child. He’s not clinging to the wrist of an adult, either. There’s a tiny white mass in Murphy’s hands that Steve takes for a rat until it squeaks and shifts and he can make out a cat’s ears. 

“You delayed us—you jeopardized this mission over a kitten?” he demands. Murphy’s love of animals is well-known—how can anyone miss the Greenpeace posters in his locker?—but there’s a time and a place, and it’s not during a tense rescue in near-hurricane conditions. 

Murphy stands straighter than Steve’s ever seen him. There’s no sign of regret in his eyes. “I’ll report for disciplinary action as soon as we return to the base, sir.” 

The kitten is mewling throughout the flight back, loud cries that make Rumlow threaten to break a window just to throw the cat out. Murphy somehow pilots the jet with the kitten nestled right up against his throat, stroking and murmuring reassurances to the tiny creature perched on his shoulder. There’ll be an official write-up for Murphy’s actions, but Steve can tell, watching Murphy stroke the now-dry, still trembling kitten, that he’s not sorry at all. 

*

“You want me to feed your cat?” Steve asks. 

“Cats, sir.” He’d remind Murphy that he doesn’t have to call him sir outside of work, but the man’s talking into the phone at one hundred miles an hour and Steve can’t get a word in edgewise. “It’s just for five days and I have all their food ready and the litter boxes are self-cleaning so it really wouldn’t be any work at all and I’m so, so sorry to ask but my mom’s having surgery and _Tía_ Sofia won’t be able to take care of her until the weekend and—”

“Isaac—”

“I asked Julie but she has to be out of town on Monday and Tuesday and I asked Jack but he said he’s allergic and I asked Brock but he said he’d eat them and I don’t think he’s serious but I also don’t want someone who doesn’t like cats taking care of them because I think they’ll pick up on that hostility and the separation will already have them stressed enough and—”

“Isaac, I—”

“It’s just once in the morning and once in the evening and really, they socialize with each other so if you don’t like cats you don’t _have_ to stay and play with them or pet them or anything just let them know that I’m thinking of them and what good cats they are and maybe play a song from their cat CD but that’s it and it shouldn’t take more than—”

“ _Isaac_ ,” Steve says, in his best Captain America voice. 

Immediately, the rambling stops. “Yes, sir?” 

“I can watch your cats. It’s no problem.” 

Steve has the foresight to move the phone away from his ear before he can be deafened by Murphy’s squeals of gratitude. 

*

Come to think of it, he knew Murphy had more than one cat. A while back, the man had posted a picture of a Siamese kitten sniffing at a sofa to the SHIELD Intranet. “Looking over his new domicile,” Murphy had captioned it. 

He hears a cat as soon as he knocks on the door of Murphy’s apartment. There’s a loud, nasal meowing from inside. It doesn’t sound much like Steve remembers the white kitten did, but he supposes the cat’s voice could have changed by now. 

“Oh, hush.” He hears Murphy’s voice, muffled. “You knew he was coming when I buzzed him in. No, you’re not going out. Shoo.” 

There’s a click of lock unlatching, and then Murphy’s pushing open the door. He’s bent over, restraining the Siamese kitten from running into the hall. “Hello, sir.” 

“Steve,” he corrects, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. The kitten darts out of Murphy’s grip and begins rubbing against Steve’s legs, still yowling. 

“Steve,” Murphy repeats. “I’m so sorry, there are lint rollers right above the coat rack, he just gets excited to see new people and—”

“Isaac, it’s fine. Not like I have any allergies he could set off.” Not anymore. He bends down, petting the kitten behind the ears. The cat purrs and nudges his head against Steve’s hand. Glancing at the coat rack, Steve finds the entire top shelf filled with lint rollers. It seems excessive, but maybe they were on sale. “He’s cute. What’s his name?” 

“Uh.” Murphy flushes a little. “Brock.” 

Steve stares at the little cat. He’s cream-colored with a deep brown face, ears, tail, and feet. His blue eyes are slightly crossed. He looks nothing like Rumlow. “You named him after Brock?” 

“The day I went to the shelter, Brock accidentally sprayed some of his Axe on me in the locker room,” Murphy explains. He scratches a hand at the back of his hair. “And cats have really sensitive noses. Most of them shied away. This guy actually liked it. He kept burying his face in my shirt. Plus, he spends a lot of time grooming.” 

Steve can’t help the sudden, loud laugh that escapes him. The Brock kitten isn’t startled, but from the corner of the room, there’s a low, annoyed _mrow._

He turns his head, and for a second he thinks there’s an owl staring disapprovingly from Murphy’s couch. 

It’s a cat, of course. A stout tabby cat, brown in color. But the cat’s ears are flattened down against its head, giving it an owlish look. So Murphy has three cats. All right. “Hey, kitty.” He shifts his weight, intending to lean forward and pet the thing, but the cat hisses immediately, swiping out with a paw. 

“Jack,” Murphy admonishes. “I’m sorry, sir, she takes a while to warm up to new people.” 

Steve would remind Murphy that they’re on a first name basis, but he finds himself raising an eyebrow instead. “Jack?” 

“She’s grumpy. And she’s always looking out for Brock. Oh, and her ears are naturally like that—don’t worry that anything’s wrong with them.” 

“Noted.” Steve stands slowly, keeping his hands close to his body so the Jack cat won’t be startled. Brock and Jack. It’s cute. He wonders if Rumlow and Rollins know, but decides probably not. They’d punch Murphy for it. “So, where’s their food?” 

“In the kitchen,” Murphy says, stepping through the doorway. 

Steve follows after, nearly tripping over the kitten winding between his feet in the process. As expected, there are several bowls of cat food and water on the floor. What Steve didn’t expect was to find two more cats gathered at the food dishes. One almost looks like an older Siamese, but with much thicker, fluffier fur. The other is a long yellow tabby with no tail. 

“Isaac,” Steve says, in what he hopes is a neutral tone of voice. “Just how many cats do you have?” 

Murphy, kneeling down to pet the fluffy cat, glances up at him. “Six,” he says, returning his attention to the cat. 

“ _Six_?” What sort of apartment allows six cats? Then again, Murphy’s told all of the team about the time he chained himself to a boat to protest whaling, so it’s not as if pet regulations in a lease would stop him.

“It was just supposed to be two!” Murphy strokes the yellow cat’s ears as though he’s shielding it from judgment. “I went to the shelter for two, you know, so they could keep each other company. But then Jack had been there for _months_ and no one would take Steve because he lost his tail, and—”

“You named a cat after me?” Steve takes a closer look at the yellow cat. He’s also missing a little piece of his right ear. 

“I—well—” Murphy stands up so quickly he nearly upends a water dish. “It’s just that most of the other cats had STRIKE names and he’s kind of your color and he looks out for the other cats and—”

“I’m not _offended_.” All right, maybe it’s a little weird, but Murphy’s always been a little weird. “So what’s the fluffy one named, Natasha?”

“Julie. I don’t have a Natasha cat.” Murphy seems to pale a little at thought. “She’d probably kill me if I did.” 

Steve would assure him that she wouldn’t, but honestly, for all he knows, she might. “So where are the last two? You still have that little white cat, right?” 

“His name’s Winter,” Murphy says. “And he’s deaf. So there are some special things you’ll need to know about caring for him, once we track him down—”

They don’t need to track Winter down, because at that moment he enters the kitchen. Sort of. He’s being carried by the scruff of the neck by a larger, hairless cat, which deposits him onto the kitchen floor and then begins licking his head. Winter has a bell on his collar. 

“Thanks, Alexander,” Murphy says. “Alexander’s very protective of Winter, aren’t you?” 

The licking turns to nipping and Murphy abruptly scoops the kitten into his hands, where Winter meows loudly. “Alexander was abandoned by his last owners,” Murphy explains. “Because he lost in a cat show. He has some trouble socializing, but he’s getting a lot better.” 

The Brock kitten trots over to Alexander, who promptly hisses. 

“Anyway, Winter.” Murphy holds the little kitten out for Steve to examine. “He won’t hear you come in, so you’ll need to track him down to make sure he gets his food. Sometimes he comes out on his own—if he smells food, or sees the other cats move, or feels vibrations from people walking on the floor—but if he doesn’t, he’s usually on my bed or in my closet. If he’s moving around, you’ll hear the bell. If he’s asleep, you don’t want to startle him, so sort of stomp over and then tap him gently. If he won’t follow you, just do this.” Murphy touches the pad of his thumb to the pads of his fingers, and taps the tips of them against his mouth. “He knows that means food.” 

It sounds easy enough. “Anything other signs I should know?” 

“This one’s ‘I love you.’” Murphy holds up his hand, curling his middle and ring fingers down while the others stay extended. “I tell him that one every day. The cats get fed once in the morning and once in the evening, and their food is in here.” 

Murphy opens the door to a tiny pantry. To Steve’s relief, he gestures to legitimate cat foods, not some sort of vegan replica. “Now, Brock and Winter eat in here.” Murphy indicates two little dishes on the floor. “They share their water with the other cats, but they’re still eating kitten food. They know to go in there for it, and then you just mostly close the door and they’ll pop out when they’re done.” 

There are two litter boxes, one in the laundry closet and one in the living room closet. “They’re self-cleaning,” Murphy explains. “Once a cat uses the litter box, it sifts itself and dumps any waste in here.” He lifts a lid to reveal a small plastic reservoir with a handle. “And then you just pick that up, and their litter’s flushable, so you just carry it into the bathroom.” 

Considering the number of cats Murphy has, it all sounds remarkably simple. The cats are brushed once a week according to Murphy, but he’ll be back in time to handle that. 

“Who watches your cats when you’re on missions?” Steve asks. 

“My neighbor. But she’s on vacation.” 

Once the care and keeping of the cats has been fully laid out, Steve decides to excuse himself to let Murphy finish packing. “Stay inside,” he tells Brock when the kitten tries to follow him out the door. 

Jack is standing near the door frame, watching. 

“You’ll keep track of him, won’t you, Jack?” Steve asks. 

The cat growls and strikes at him with her claws. 

*

Monday morning is uneventful. Steve finds Winter curled up on the bed and gently taps him until he’s conscious. The kitten has the loudest meow Steve’s ever heard, but he supposes that makes sense. It’s not like Winter has any idea what he sounds like. 

When he goes around to check the litter boxes, most of the cats follow. Julie is too busy licking at her fur, and Alexander spares him a disdainful glance before curling up in front of the refrigerator. Brock keeps winding between his legs, though, and the Steve cat stays close by, watching each of the human Steve’s actions with intensely focused green eyes. Winter keeps nuzzling against the Steve cat, purring almost as loudly as he meows. Jack maintains a distance but follows nonetheless, glaring. 

Murphy calls around noon. “My mom’s out of surgery. The doctors say everything went well.”

“That’s great.”

“Let the cats know I miss them.”

Steve promises that he will. 

He’s in the SHIELD gym when there’s a familiar voice from behind him. “Holding out, big guy?” 

When he turns away from the punching bag, Rumlow’s making his way across the mats. “What’s that?”

“Heard you got saddled watching Murphy’s cats,” Rumlow says. He starts adjusting the levels on the weight machine besides Steve. “Tell me, are they all named after musicians no one’s ever heard of? Do they wear baby shirts with the collars popped?”

Steve pictures the Brock kitten in a popped collar. With the fur on his head styled to match Rumlow’s hair. 

It’s not often he laughs until he’s tearing up. 

When he finally manages to calm himself, he raises his head to find Rollins glowering at him from the other side of the gym. Rollins is the only member of the STRIKE team Steve’s never gotten at all close to. Steve’s pretty sure he resents having Captain America up and added to their team out of the blue, and he can’t say he doesn’t understand, but it’s been months. He’d hoped they’d at least have moved past the ‘no conversation but polite hellos’ stage by now. 

“Tell you what,” Rumlow says. “You make it through a whole week of dealing with Murphy’s little cat collection, and I’ll buy you a drink.” 

That evening, when he opens Murphy’s door, Brock comes barreling out and streaks down the hall. Steve slams the door shut before any other cats can escape and chases after him. It’s over quickly, thanks to Steve’s speed. Brock doesn’t seem to mind that his adventure’s ended prematurely, purring and cuddling against Steve’s chest. When they return to the door, he can hear cats meowing concernedly inside.

Winter and the Steve cat nuzzle against his legs when they spot Brock in his hands. Jack moves closer to Steve than she’s ever been before, staring up.

“He’s fine,” Steve assures her, tilting his hands so she can have a better view of Brock. “See?” 

Jack sinks her teeth into Steve’s ankle. 

*

Over the next three days, Steve receives another bite on the ankle, one of the Achilles, and three scratches.

He’s come to understand most of the cats. Julie will play with either kitten if they approach her, but prefers to prance around alone most of the time. The Steve cat is calm and friendly unless he feels another cat is threatened, at which point he arches his back, hissing and blocking any potential threat. Alexander is only willing to spend time with Winter and Brock, though he snaps at either of them if they do anything to annoy him, or sometimes just because. Once, Steve came in to find Alexander sitting on top of Winter. The Steve and Jack cats don’t get along with Alexander. Winter is the only cat who likes to sit in the windowsill facing the street, because the traffic noises can’t unsettle him. It’s best to carry Brock around the apartment to ensure that Steve doesn’t trip on him. 

Picking Brock up, however, triggers the bites from Jack. 

Steve has tried everything he can think of. Any attempts to pet Jack lead to claws gouging his hands. Keeping his distance only works until he’s holding Brock, and then Jack pounces at him, all claws and teeth. He’s tried the special cat treats Murphy keeps in the pantry. He’s tried the bizarre CD with music Murphy said was developed to specifically appeal to cats. He even calls Murphy on Thursday night and puts the phone up to Jack so she can hear her owner’s voice. 

Nothing helps. 

Steve knows that, in the grand scheme of things, a cat disliking him doesn’t matter. Hell, he doesn’t even like cats that much. Sure, they’re cute enough, but they’re also little living hairballs that leave half of a mouse in their owner’s shoes or spend the night yowling for food. Jack’s alive, she has other cats to keep her company while Murphy’s away, and that should be enough. 

But it’s not. And it’s all because of the cat’s damn name. 

It’s ridiculous. If Bucky were still around, he’d roll his eyes and call Steve a lunatic. And he knows it sounds crazy. Just because the cat shares a name with Rollins, it doesn’t make them at all connected. Getting the cat to cuddle up to him won’t change the fact that his teammate glares daggers toward him at every opportunity. He knows that. 

But knowing and feeling are two different things. And no matter how Steve tries to steel himself, he always walks into Murphy’s apartment with a flicker of hope. 

And leaves with a few bloody scratches that will heal by the time he gets home. 

*

He knows something’s wrong on Friday morning before he even goes inside. 

There’s meowing, just like always. But it isn’t Brock’s meowing, and it isn’t right up against the door. It isn’t Winter’s voice either. It sounds almost like a baby wailing. 

Steve throws open the door, making sure it latches behind him before he sprints toward the noise. Murphy’s bedroom. He sees the source of the trouble as soon as he reaches the doorway. 

Brock seems to have jumped from Murphy’s desk and into the window shade. He’s tangled between the plastic blinds, twisting and mewling and making no progress in freeing himself. The Steve cat keeps jumping at the shade, trying to swat him free, but his efforts aren’t amounting to anything. And directly below the window, Jack is crying. 

“Hey.” Steve steps into the bedroom. Julie and Winter are curled up on the bed. Winter’s still asleep. Alexander isn’t in the room. “It’s okay, kitty. I’ve got you.” 

He carefully takes hold of Brock. He’s aware of Jack right next to his feet, but he can ignore any bites or scratches. The important thing is freeing the kitten without injuring or further frightening him. It takes at least a minute, maybe more thanks to Brock’s squirming, but then the kitten is detached and his frightened little whines and nips give way to purring. 

“Here you go.” Steve places Brock on the floor, right next to Jack. Immediately, Jack is over top of the kitten—Brock has to crouch down, because Jack isn’t that tall—licking at his fur. The Steve cat is rubbing appreciatively against Steve’s ankles. On the bed, Julie seems to roll her eyes. 

With the crisis averted, Steve steps out to take care of the litter boxes. 

He’s in the pantry filling the food dishes when there’s a nudge against his ankle. He looks down, expecting either Brock or Winter, but instead Jack shoves her head against him a second time. Then she walks out of the pantry without a glance back.

In Steve’s pocket, his phone chimes. 

The text is from Rumlow, reading ‘Jack & I are going to Happy Hour tonight. You in or have you become a crazy cat lady yet?’ 

Steve doesn’t generally agree to Rumlow’s drinking invitations. It’s hard for him to even feel a nice buzz from alcohol and he knows Rollins isn’t happy to have him around. But what the hell. Maybe tonight will be different. 

He sends his reply: ‘I’m in.’

Before he leaves, he has to pull Alexander off of Winter to stop him from nipping at the kitten’s throat, but other than that, everything’s looking up. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Music specifically engineered to appeal to cats](http://musicforcats.com/) is a real thing.
> 
> When Murphy captions the Brock cat photo as "looking over his new domicile," he is referencing the song ["We Are Siamese if You Please"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rlQYqQs0R3w) from _Lady and the Tramp._


End file.
